With Sorrow We Accept Our Fortunes
by Philosophizes
Summary: From the dustjacket: "At once a memoir, a meticulously-researched history, and a stunning look into the inner lives of the world's most neglected players on the world stage, Keld Schumacher's masterpiece is a startlingly and brutally honest account of the events surrounding the Crisis Decade". A fanfiction with highly meta aspects
1. Introduction

This book was an accident.

I was never aiming to write a book- I was never aiming to write anything but coherent notes about the most complicated case I had ever been hired for in my ten years of psychiatric therapy. Looking back on it, I now realize it was nearly as hard as dealing with the case itself; but that never occurred to me over the weeks and months I spent copying, re-copying, cross-referencing, adding to, paring down, and collating the sheer _amount_ of information I managed to amass.

I didn't realize I even _had_ a story until much later.

* * *

I was still in New York about a week after the events at the United Nations.

I had an office in the building by then, though I hadn't when I'd started out. I was a little late coming back from lunch- perhaps ten minutes- and when I passed Verena at the front desk, I wasn't expecting anything to be going on.

"Were you expecting _Signor _Vargas?"

I had no idea where that could have come from.

"No?"

"He's in your office."

So I spent a harried minute or so attempting to look more professional than I was prepared to before entering my office.

Lovino Vargas was there- looking through my notes. He didn't seem to care that I'd walked in and caught him doing something a little less than legal. He just turned the next page and kept reading.

"You're really not supposed to be doing that."

"You think I give a fuck?"

I knew I wasn't going to get the notes back from him until he was ready to give them up, but when I got to my desk I saw that he was reading the abridged version- the bare bones outline of everything I'd heard from my clients since my first meeting six years before.

I sat down at my desk and failed at fighting through my unease about the possibility that client confidentiality was being betrayed.

"You've got a lot of shit here that will never see a history book," Lovino told me after about fifteen minutes. He'd finished the notes by then and had been glaring- or maybe just staring hard- at the stack of paper for about three.

Now he was giving me the same look.

I wasn't sure what he wanted to hear, or why he was even in my office in the first place.

"It's not supposed to," I replied.

Lovino held the glare for a few seconds, spat something angry out under his breath, turned on his heel, and left my office.

To this day I have no idea what he'd come to see me about.

* * *

That was not the start of this book.

Not for _me,_ anyway.

* * *

My start came a few years later, when I received a call from Arenu Barbar at Hillcaster-Duvanti Publishing.

Despite a good deal of hard work, there were (and still are, I believe) copies of The Video circulating on the Internet. It was also, unfortunately, not exactly difficult to find information about my sister.

My phone rang and I answered it. I wasn't expecting any calls, but I thought it might have been Rémy, and he'd been delayed at the meeting he was supposed to have before coming for a visit.

Before I could manage to say anything, a woman started talking.

"Keld Schumacher?"

"Yes?"

"This is Arenu Barbar from Hillcaster-Duvanti and I'd like to ask you some questions about your sister."

If there is one thing I hate discussing with people, it's my sister.

The conversation blew up after that point.

Rémy arrived just in time to hear me scream: "My family is none of your business!" and hang up.

One question led to another and soon enough, still furious from the call and not thinking entirely straight, I'd pulled out the abridged notes and all the supplementary material and was pacing around the room ranting while Rémy sat quietly in my armchair and looked through everything.

When he was done, he told me: "You put a lot of yourself into this."

"Of course I did!" I snapped back at him. "That was my life's work!"

He helped me put everything away, and I was still out of sorts when he left.

* * *

The next day, Francis Bonnefoy showed up at my front door and asked for the abridged notes. I wouldn't let him take them, but he managed to wheedle his way into getting to read some of it. He sighed and smiled and tutted disapprovingly over portions for a few minutes before putting the pages down.

"This is the story Lovino told us about."

I told him it wasn't a story, it was his life and the lives of his friends and my case notes, but he let my words breeze right past him.

"Rémy told me you got a call from a publishing house… who was it?"

I refused to tell him. He let me get about sentence in before waving at me to stop talking.

"No no _no,_ this will not do," Francis told me. "You must call this person back and tell her you have the information she wants."

I said I wouldn't and he said I would and it went back and forth for I don't know how long until Francis slammed his hand down on my kitchen table and pointed dramatically at me.

"You _will _call Ms. Barbar back because there is no one who can do what you can!"

I had to pause for a moment to try and figure out what he meant, but he moved straight on to his point.

"_You_ know about what happened with your sister. No one else can tell it but you and Ms. Barbar wants information- if you do not tell her the truth, she will get it from somewhere else and then who _knows_ what it will be like!"

He stayed in my kitchen until I looked up Arenu Barbar's number on the publisher's website and called her back. She asked again about my sister, and the only thing that kept me from immediately hanging up was Francis lurking behind me.

"Why do you want to know about my sister?" I asked grudgingly.

"I want to commission a book about Nations."

Up until that point, I thought she'd wanted to write about my sister. I repeated what Ms. Barbar had said to Francis.

"Tell her you can write it."

I shook my head frantically at him, but it didn't help.

"Tell her you worked for the European Union and now you work for the United Nations and you are employed to be the Nations' psychologist and that you can tell the world what _really_ happened with Cantagalli, in The Video, with _Bundeskanzlerin_ Friederike, the Demon General, the Sundering- _all_ of it."

I could have told him no. I could have hung up on Ms. Babar.

I could have done a lot of things.

But in that moment I remembered the countless sessions I'd had, the things I'd been told, the people I'd met, what I'd learned. I remembered Lovino, standing on the other side of my desk, telling me that what I'd written- what I _knew_- would never be in history books.

I realized that if I didn't do as Francis had told me to, the stories of the Nations whose lives were so intimately connected to the whatever dry list of facts that would appear in the history books would never get a chance to be known.

So I repeated what Francis had told me to say to Arenu Barbar, and during the flurry of questions that followed, I realized that I had a story.

* * *

Arenu Barbar was the Head Editor for Hillcaster-Duvanti Publishers in Brussels. We spent a solid week on the phone discussing everything we could possibly think up to ask each other and hashing out some initial guidelines for how the book would go.

I told her I'd never written a book before and she dismissed it, saying there was a reason editors had a job. She'd handle the manuscript personally.

I was more than happy to let her handle the technical aspects of writing I had no experience in. I had only one demand for the book itself- whenever a draft was finished and edited, before anything else could be done with it, it had to be approved by the Nations.

Arenu had no end of objections to this- it would compromise my vision, it would bias the story, international politics would have everyone trying to make themselves look better and it would never go anywhere.

I told her that I was writing about their lives, and they had the final say about what I got to tell the world about them.

We didn't speak for a month after that, but I started on the first draft despite this, and Arenu called me back when I was halfway done to agree to my terms.

* * *

In the end, there were only two official drafts of this book.

The first was written by expanding and cutting away at my abridged notes for eighteen months before sending off for editing. There are roughly one hundred copies of this draft in existence- my copy, the copy Arenu edited, and one for each Nation who had more than a background appearance in the story.

The deliberation over the first draft took up a full two months of meetings that I was later told ranged from a full day's session in the UN itself to five minutes in a back alley of some Alpine village hiding from the consequences of a joke gone wrong.

Eventually, I got a copy of the manuscripts back, re-typed with Arenu's edits and covered in handwritten annotations.

The second draft took nearly three times as long as the first. There are three copies of that draft- mine, the one with Arenu's edits, and one group copy from the Nations, completely unmarked except for one word on the title page.

_ 'Wait'_

* * *

We waited seventy-nine years and eight months to publish the book you now hold in your hands.

I often asked _why_ we had to wait when I had been all but ordered to write the book in the first place. The answers I got ranged from _"It's still too soon, _Herr_ Schumacher, I'm sorry,"_ to _"Because we damn well _told _you to!"_ .

I think I know the true reason.

Their children began dying around thirty years ago. This is their story and their lives just as much as it is their parents. I'm sure they were consulted about the first draft, though I never heard of it. I'm sure their parents wanted to give them as much privacy as possible in their lives- the one thing that can never be doubted about them is that their children are very dear to them, and they love them greatly, whether they are still in this world or departed for the next.

* * *

Some of the names in this book you may have heard before- many you have not, and never will again. All of the things you read within, no matter how far-fetched they seem, actually occurred. I have done my best to portray the events as they happened, using the information that was reported to me. No names or characteristics of any persons have been changed to preserve anonymity. All facts not relating in the majority to personal experiences are verifiable through the public record.

I hope you the history I have to tell in these pages means as much to you as it does to the people who lived it.

Amsterdam  
May 2135

* * *

This is the unawesome version of this story. The awesome version can be read on my AO3 account, also under the name Philosophizes


	2. 2047: August

****Giuditta Ferrero Agresta Karpusi blinked in the darkness of the bedroom and realized her husband wasn't asleep beside her.

She got out of bed and pulled on her robe and slipped down the hallway to other bedroom, easing the door open.

Little Apollonia, barely a month old, was still sleeping. Her father wasn't with her.

Giuditta closed the door silently and noticed a light on downstairs. And somebody was talking on the phone.

She started down the stairs.

_'I am sorry, but the customer you are trying to reach has been disconnected-' _

The disembodied voice of a pleasant-sounding woman floated through the air to her ears, followed by a much less-pleased male voice.

"_Skatά_."

"I think _Padre _is rubbing off on you. Or maybe it's just Naples."

Nikephoros Karpusi lowered the phone and looked over at his wife.

"Did Apollonia-"

Ditta hugged herself, a little cold despite the warm August night outside.

"She's still sleeping. Did you ever go to bed?"

"No," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I tried his office but it was busy, so I hung up and tried again later but it was_ still_ busy, and then the next time the line was dead and so was his house and now the _cell _service is down-"

"Nike," his wife murmured, kissing him. "Come to bed. We'll go see _Padre_ tomorrow, okay? He'll be able to help."

Nikephoros sighed and looked sorrowfully at the phone.

"But _Patέras_-"

"I know you're worried, but we can't do anything about it. Greece isn't going away anytime soon."

"But the _government-_"

"There's more to a Nation than a government. Those come and go. The land is still there, and the people. Your father will be _fine._"

* * *

Feliks was in his kitchen, all the lights off, getting himself a glass of water. It was still quite dark outside, without even a hint of false dawn.

Warsaw was mostly quiet- it was city, it never truly stopped, even during the worst dark and stormy nights- especially in this nice little residential area Feliks had found for himself not too long ago.

The house creaked.

_Floor beams,_ his brain said.

_Floor _boards_,_ his instincts said, and sent his hand reaching for a knife.

Poland looked at his hand a moment, put his glass down, and slipped into the living room, which simultaneously had a nice selection of old swords and a good view of the tiny hall area just beyond the front door.

A door which was -suspiciously- slightly open.

_The Koncerz is for plate armor, _Feliks reminded himself as he looked at his display of old weapons. _Szabla's better._

He unhooked the cavalry sabre from its place on the wall and padded silently over to the open entryway that led from the living room to the hall.

He could hear hushed voices now, obscured slightly by the rain falling outside.

The door opened all the way, and someone stepped inside and walked forwards.

"_Zatrzymanie_," Poland ordered, twirling out from behind the wall and placing the edge of the sabre lightly against an intruder's throat.

There was a high, strangled sob, and Feliks flipped the lights on.

A teenage girl started wide-eyed and tearful at him over the sabre, utterly terrified, and _with a baby in her arms._

Feliks raised an eyebrow.

"Explain."

* * *

The front door of Sweden's house banged open, and Finland awoke with a start.

Berwald was still in bed next to him.

"Who?" Timo whispered.

Sweden reached over his lover and picked up his glasses from the nightstand, putting them on as he sat up.

"Don't know."

Finland rolled out from under the covers and landed on the hardwood floor silently, crouched down. He reached under the bed and pulled out his rifle.

Sweden already had the door open. Timo rushed past him as quietly as he could and ducked down behind the railing on the landing of the stairs. He had the perfect view of the living room, and there was someone-

"Get out from behind the couch and put your hands up!" he yelled. "Three seconds or I shoot!"

"_Isä!_" the man in the living room yelled back. "I'm_ not_ going to steal your stuff!"

"Armas!" Finland cried, shouldering his rifle. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Quit."

_"What?"_ he demanded, taking the stairs two at a time. _"Why?"_

"People looked at me funny."

"That's _no_ reason to quit your job!" his father scolded him, entering the living room. Berwald's footsteps were heavy on the stairs behind him. "And why aren't you at your own apartment?"

"Kicked out," his son said, gesturing at the bags dumped at the head of the couch. "Didn't pay the rent."

_"Armas!"_

"I'm staying on _Far_'s couch," the man in question said, collapsing onto it to prove his point. (Father)

"Why didn't you pay y'ur rent?" Berwald asked, looking at his younger son curiously.

"Didn't want to stay," Armas said into the pillow. "They were looking at me funny."

_"Armas!"_ Timo exclaimed again.

"They all know about _Eluf; okay!_"

A car drove by outside.

"Oh," Timo said.

Armas turned over on the couch.

"Nobody wants to be around the brother of an assassin. I'm not putting up with them anymore."

Berwald sat down on the edge of the couch and stroked his son's hair.

"They'll stop event'lly. You can stay here 'ntil they stop."

Armas snorted, but wrapped his arms around his father's waist.

"Thanks- but that will be forever."

"Forev'r's good."

Finland left to put his rifle back and start breakfast.

* * *

"Mornin'."

"Look at this, Alfred," the man at the table said, gesturing with his fork at the television. "Isn't this something?"

Alfred collapsed into the chair and started groggily at the screen.

"Wha'?"

"A politician, entering the final stretch of a Presidential campaign, insulting and slandering his opponent in every imaginable way!" Adlai Whitaker, Fiftieth President of the United States, sounded positively gleeful. "And the best part is, I'm _completely_ out of it!"

"Urgh," America replied, dropping his head to the table.

"Not very articulate today, are we? Anything wrong?"

"Nuthin'."

"Only six more months," President Whitaker told himself happily. "Six more months, and I won't have to deal with this anymore!"

He paused to look at his Nation, half-asleep on the top of his dining room table.

"Not that I don't like you," he added as an afterthought.

"Inno."

The President switched the television off to avoid the early-morning talk shows.

"You're not getting sick, are you?" he asked in concern. "I know globalization makes things spread fast, and with Greece-"

_"M'fine!"_

"It's just that Finland's economy has been wavering since the end of last year and _Borsa Italiana_ opened this morning with a twenty percent drop in overall value; and the London Stock Exchange wasn't much better-" (Italian Stock Exchange)

"Wasshat?"

"-and those Chinese rebels are acting up again. Oh, and Havana was seized around one-thirty this morning by _La Liga de Antiespín_. That sort of unrest isn't good for economies, either."

"Where's the paper?"

"Paper?" the President asked, confused. "Do you want to take notes?"

"_News_ report!" America clarified, awake now. "Where's the report? How come all the good stuff happens while I'm sleeping?"

* * *

Cuba sat in a chair in his hallway, legs crossed, smoking.

Presently, there was a series of sharp, polite knocks on his door.

He got up and opened it.

Zacarías saluted.

"I'm in Havana, _Papá_," he said. "Just like you wanted, public support and everything."

Cuba nodded to himself and looked around the street.

"Yep. I see the house on the end is still burning."

Zacarías winced.

"We tried_, Papá_-"

"Know you did. Coulda done better, but hey, revolutions are messy things."

He pointed his cigar at his son's companion.

"That _El Jefazo_?"

"Yes, _Papá_."

"Hmm," Cuba remarked, sizing the man up. "Adán Salcedo Esparza. Wondered where you went after you broke out of jail."

The leader of the resistance looked a little thrown, but rallied well.

"An honor to meet you, _Señor_," he said, extending his hand.

Cuba shook it firmly.

"Marco Echemendia. _República de Cuba._ Zacarías's dad. You the one in charge now?"

"_Sí_."

"Oh yeah?" Marco asked, taking another drag of his cigar.

Zacarías moved away slightly. He knew trouble when he saw it.

"The people supported the LAE. They supported _me._"

"And that's how it works?"

"_Sí_."

"Adán, are you a god-fearing man?" Cuba asked.

"Excuse me?" the other man asked, thrown by the sudden change in topic.

"Simple question. You devout? Go to church every Sunday? Pray regularly? Live your life by the Ten Commandments and His holy word? _Are you god-fearing?_"

The resistance leader still looked completely lost.

"Um…no?"

"Good," Marco replied, grinding his cigar out on the ashtray he kept on his deck. "Me neither."

He punched _El Jefazo_ in the face.

* * *

Øystein Bondevik checked the nearest street sign to make sure that he really was on City Road, Cardiff, and walked into the coffeehouse.

"Øystein!" a familiar voice exclaimed.

His head whipped around.

"_Ásdís?_" he asked incredulously. "What are_ you_ doing in Wales? Shouldn't you be in Los Angeles?"

Ásdís gestured impatiently to the other empty seat at her small table.

"Shouldn't_ you_ be in Las Vegas?" she asked, giving him a look that clearly said _'don't mention Los Angeles!'_.

Ah; so she was being incognito- Ásdís Bondevik, Coffee-Lover; not Asdír Bondevik, Temperamental Millionaire Movie Star.

"I… got an invitation," Øystein told her. "And a pre-paid ticket. With instructions."

Ásdís raised her eyebrows and glared, putting her coffee mug down a bit too hard on the table.

"What does Cassiel Beilschmidt want with _you?_" she demanded. "And why a _one-way_ ticket?"

"He asked you here, too?"

A white leather pouch dropped into their field of vision, making a clattering noise as it was shaken around.

"Runecasting?" Cassiel asked.

"Cassiel Pietri Beilschmidt-Navin-" Asdír began angrily as he dragged an extra chair across the table and sat down.

"You sound just like Mr. Kirkland when you say that," he interrupted her as he put the cloth pouch on the table. "Or my mother."

He fished around in the bag.

"I took out all the middle bits, by the way. Well, not _officially,_ but it's so much easier to just say 'Cassiel Navin', isn't it? Plus, my birth certificate says I was born in Jerusalem. Jewish name, Jewish birthplace. It's easier to just let people make some assumptions than explain the whole 'Jerusalem to Berlin to Rome and back again' saga, don't you think?"

Cassiel pulled a tile out of his bag and looked at it with interest.

"Hmm," he said, placing the tile on the table so they could all see it. "Thurisaz. Not very enlightening all by itself, is it?"

"What are you playing at, Cassiel?" Ásdís asked.

_"Playing?"_ Cassiel asked, sounding incredulous. "I'm not playing at anything."

"You're lucky that I even managed to get out here," Øystein said, rubbing his temples. "Vegas shows aren't often cancelled, and I have another one tomorrow night. I can't stay long, so if you could just get to the _point-_"

"The point?"

Cassiel put Thurisaz back into his bag.

"The point is that I am a genius mastermind who is about three steps away from kick-starting science into _lightspeed_ progress, and the whole process could get started quite a bit faster if you two signed onto the ride today."

* * *

"Mr. Braginski?"

Russia grunted, still asleep.

Pavel Laurinaitis shook his uncle once again.

"_Jej_!" a high-pitched, insistent voice demanded.

"Sh!" Pavel scolded sharply, then shook Russia again.

"Mr. Braginski, _pozhalujsta_," he pleaded quietly. "Wake _up._ There's an emergency."

"'Merg'ncy?" Ivan muttered, stirring slightly.

"_Da_, Mr. Braginski."

"_Prosypatsja_!" a different voice demanded, and Russia awoke with an _'oof'_ as something heavy landed on his stomach.

"Pavel," he muttered, "Do not do that. I am awake, _da_? Is it the _Evrozona_ again? Is it little _Finljandija _or _Grecija_?"

"It wasn't me," Pavel said. "That was part of your emergency."

Ivan grunted again and sat up, opening his eyes.

A small girl glared at him, her dark eyes narrowed in anger behind her messy black hair.

Russia was distinctly unimpressed.

"Pavel, a small child is _not_ anemergency," he said severely.

Pavel shifted.

"Well, there's another one."

The sheets on the bed twisted and shifted as another girl, older-looking, clawed her way onto the bed.

"_La'amee!_" the first girl declared.

Ivan didn't hear her, too caught up in the second girl's dark red eyes. He reached out to touch her gray, fluffy-looking hair.

She shoved herself back to the foot of the bed.

"F_reedom!"_

Russia thought he was starting to get a hold on what the emergency was.

"Who are you, _Maljutka_?" he asked, voice falsely pleasant.

_ Kyonig!"_ the second said loudly, pounding her fists on the mattress.

_"Noxc̈iyn Respublika!"_ spat the first girl.

The four of them sat there quietly for a little while as Ivan contemplated what a strange picture they must make.

"Pavel."

"Yes?"

"Did you tell the President-"

"No."

"Good. Do _not._ Go- go start breakfast. And find me a Russian-Chechen dictionary, _da_?"

* * *

Tai Wang stood in Terminal 3 of Beijing Capital International Airport, clutching his passport and staring desperately at the crowds gathered around the luggage pick-up.

He'd managed to get through the check-in and his passport had been inspected briefly without comment- clearly, his _Nonno_'s connections really _were_ that good.

_The man with the sign,_ he reminded himself. _I want the man with the sign that says 'Tai Fernandez'._

His _Mamma_ knew better than to put his _Babá_'s name on the passport. Now he just had to remember that.

_ I can't forget. They've put too much effort into this, and I want it too much, to let it go to waste._

* * *

Feliks took the finished coffee out into his living room, where the girl he'd caught sat shivering, wrapped up in a blanket against the cold in her bones from walking in the rain and terror of being questioned at sword-point by a man she now knew to be her Nation.

"Here you go," he told her, handing her the cup.

She took it warily, eyes flickering between his face and the weapons on the wall and her newborn child, propped up happily on the couch in a nest of pillows and small blankets.

"I didn't like, _do_ anything to it," he assured her. "Just drink."

She took a gulp and twitched a little.

"It's hot," Feliks reminded her with a smile, sitting down on the couch next to her. "You're _sure_ you can't go home?"

"Not with Roksana," the girl whispered. "_Mama_ got really really mad when I told her and_ Tata_ threw me out and- and- and- I can't just leave Roksana all alone but I can't keep hi-hiding in churches and things now because she needs somewhere safe and warm now that she's born b-b-bu-"

Teodozja Pakulski- fifteen, single mother, disowned from her family- dissolved into sobbing for the second time that night.

Feliks held her until she felt better.

"Please, _Pan Polska_," she managed to get out. "Please, _please_ help Roksana. I-I-I don't want to leave her b-but I can't k-keep her, so _please-_"

"What about Roksana's father?" he asked.

"M-Mieczysław do-doesn't want her or me!" Teodozja sobbed. "I t-told him th-that I was pregnant and he said he couldn't help! A-a-and I was too scared t-to ask _Pani_ Król b-because she's really _fierce_-"

"_Pani_ Król?" Feliks asked. "Like, _Grażyna_ Król?"

Teodozja nodded miserably.

"Y-Y-You _know_ her?" she asked.

"I know where she, like, _lives,_" Feliks told her quickly.

He glanced at the infant on his couch, trying not to look completely shellshocked.

_My great-granddaughter. How totally crazy is _that_?_

Teodozja sniffed.

"_Pan Polska_?"

"Yeah?"

"A-Am I going to get in trouble?"

"Well, I'm not gonna, like, turn you_ in_ or anything. Since you're totally sure you've got nowhere to go."

_My great-granddaughter._

"_Dziękuję,_" she said weakly, clearly relieved.

_Roksana._

"So, you like, want a room? I've got _tons _of extra space."

Teodozja stared at him.

"I'm being totally serious here," Feliks told her. "You don't want to leave Roksana. I like, _totally _get that. You were gonna leave her here for me as a like, 'ward of the state' thing; but I _caught_ you, so now I'm saying you can seriously stay until we like, figure something out."

_"Really?"_ Teodozja whispered.

"How many times do I have to like, say it? You're totally allowed to stay."

* * *

Giuditta settled her infant daughter higher in her arms and pointed at the doorbell.

"Look, look, Loni. This is a doorbell, okay? _Un campanello_. We can ring it and _Nonno_ Vino will come out!"

Apollonia, responding to the encouraging tone of her mother's voice, was staring at the doorbell in great curiosity. She gurgled and waved a hand at it.

"You want to press the doorbell, Loni?" Ditta asked, taking her daughter's hand. "Okay, then, _Grecina_, here we go-"

She pressed gently on the back of Apollonia's little hand until the doorbell depressed and a few faint computerized tones made their way through the heavy wood door.

The door opened almost immediately.

"_Padre_!" Giuditta said brightly. "Nike and Loni and I- _Zia _Spasia?"

Nikephoros backed up. It wasn't that he _disliked_ the eldest of the various Italian Nations.

It was just that Vespasia Marconi (who still refused the name 'Vargas') was, well-

-she was Sicily.

A tall, dusky woman who just _radiated _majesty and authority, all from within the confines of a dark red skirt suit, hair pulled half-up artfully in a way that let her keep her hair out of her eyes but still tumbling nicely.

He'd been informed that her fashion had barely changed in all the centuries she'd lived. Sicily was a woman of habit and tradition- and when she was in a house, she _owned_ it. Nikephoros attempted to cheer himself up with the thought that his father-in-law would likely not be swearing quite so much today.

"_Zia_!" Giuditta exclaimed happily, taking her aunt's presence completely for granted. "We just came to talk to _Padre _about Nike's father since we couldn't reach him last ni-"

Sicily plucked Apollonia from her mother's arms.

"Sitting room. He showed up early this morning. Everyone's here now."

"Hm?" Ditta asked.

Nikephoros pushed past the both of them and dashed into the sitting room.

Everyone really_ was_ there. His father-in-law was pacing aimlessly but determinedly around the room, muttering to himself. The Vatican was sitting very stiffly in an antique-looking chair, eyes following his elder brother. Seborga had claimed the coffee table and was quietly sketching the corner of the room, where another woman he vaguely remembered being at his wedding was sitting.

Sardinia- that was who it was. The bitter one who always had to be dragged off her island.

Veneziano was draped across the back of the couch, watching his brother's houseguest's face-

"_Patέras_!"

He dashed to the couch and knelt down beside it, grabbing his father's hand.

It was deathly cold.

* * *

England watched the woman and child cut across the park grass surreptitiously as he fumbled for his phone.

He pulled it out and stood, ambling after the two and trying to look inconspicuous.

"Kirkland," he said into the phone.

"Yo, dude, what's_ up_ with your stock exchange?"

Arthur cursed to himself. America was interrupting his _personal _time.

"Sometimes they have bad openings," he said curtly, trying to focus on the child's yellow bag and the woman's navy shirt. Those were the only things differentiating them from the slew of other parents and children beginning to appear. "You _know_ that, Alfred!"

"But the Bossman said that Italy and Romano's stocks opened down too, and Finland's still sick and Greece-"

"I _don't_ want to hear about Greece!" he snapped.

It was the first day of school. That was _important._

"But En_glaaaaaand-_"

"Don't you have _things_ to do?"

"This_ is_ a thing to do! It's on the Bossman's _'List of Stuff for Alfred to Do Today'_- _Number 2: Call England-_"

Arthur cursed. His former charge's blathering had made him lose his focus. The woman and her child were gone.

"What was number one?" England asked America, hoping that it would be something important enough to get him off the phone.

"_'Get to bed on time, 'cause you're not awake enough in the mornings'_!"

Something bumped into England's leg, and he looked down.

A girl with a yellow bag was clutching his pant leg, staring up at him with wide hazel eyes.

Arthur opened his mouth, but something caught in his throat.

"Yo, England, you still there?" America asked. His voice sounded distant through the phone.

The girl blinked, and looked intently at the air over England's shoulder.

"Are _you_ friends with Ainsel, too?"

Arthur's eyes flickered to the side. His little fairy sometimes-companion was perched on his shoulder, waving at the girl.

The girl waved back.

England's mind went blank.

"Lana! _Eglantine!_"

The woman in the navy shirt trotted over quickly and took her daughter's hand firmly.

"Lana-" she started to scold.

"Mum, the nice man knows Ainsel!" Eglantine said excitedly, bouncing in place.

The woman blinked and looked at Arthur, their perfectly-matched green eyes meeting for a second. She looked like she was thinking something, but the look hid itself behind a polite mask of slight embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, sir," Irene Walker said. "My daughter likes to pull people into her fantasies. We'll let you get back to your conversation now."

She walked off, pulling Lana, who yelled-

"_Bye,_ Ainsel! Say hi to the nice man for me!"

-with her.

"Dude, who was _that?_"

"None of your bloody business!" Arthur nearly screamed, finding his voice again.

A lot parents glared at him disapprovingly for a moment, and England quickly left school property, crossing the street back into the park.

"You were_ totally_ stalking your daughter again! England, seriously, that's _not _cool-"

"It's not your business," he hissed, and swiftly turned his phone off so he wouldn't have to hear any more about the family life he freely admitted was a pathetic mess.

* * *

Adán Salcedo Esparza groaned, blinked, and realized he was staring at the underside of someone's porch roof.

_Where- I was- _

Cuba squatted down next to him, taking up his immediate vision.

"And _that's_ what the people think of _you_, '_El Jefazo'_," he said, jabbing a new, lit cigar in his face.

"Don't- Don't you have to listen to me?" Adán asked weakly, head still spinning.

"You ain't in charge yet!" Cuba declared. "_Nobody's_ in charge of me right now!"

"But- But I'm in charge of the LAE-"

"Yeah? Well, the LAE's not my government!"

Adán managed to sit up without the world flipping over. That was good.

"Then who gives you orders?"

Cuba blew some smoke at him.

"I guess it's me. Right now my kids- the citizens of Cuba, to you- are listening to you 'cause you're the big hero. But they want elections, not despots!"

Zacarías decided to take a little bit of pity on his technically-boss and helped Adán stand up.

"They want _elections!_" Cuba continued. "_I _want elections! And I can't stand guys with big-ego nicknames _or _heroes! Now get off my porch and start working on some democracy! I've almost forgotten what it looks like!"

Zacarías stood around uncertainly as _El Jefazo_ stumbled off down the street.

"Sit down, son," Cuba said. "Been too long since you saw civilization, even if bits of it are on fire. And you're gonna have some ice cream whether you like it or not!"

"_Sí, Papá_," he sighed. "Whatever you say."

"That's damn right, whatever I say."

* * *

Pavel tried to ignore the child who was currently occupying Russia's chair at the table and focus on making blini, but the girl was making it very hard to concentrate.

"May there always be sunshine," she sang, as he mixed the ingredients. "May there always be blue skies-"

"May there always be Mama," she sang, as he started baking the blini in the pan.

_This girl, whatever she may be, _cannot _sing-_

"May there always-"

"Will you _please _stop!" Pavel demanded. "Don't you realize how _annoying_ that is?"

The girl stared blankly at him_._

Pavel turned the stove off. The blini were almost done- and he had a pressing question to ask.

"Where did you even come_ up_ with the name 'Gisbertovich'? Prussia hasn't been Kaliningrad since-"

_"Kyonig!"_ the girl demanded, her wine-colored eyes flashing.

"So do you like Königsberg better, then-"

_"Kyo-nig_,_"_ she pronounced slowly, clearly believing that he didn't understand.

Pavel sighed, frustrated. He clearly wasn't cut out for dealing with small, stubborn children.

"_Fine._ Kyonig, where did you hear about Prussia?"

She tapped her head.

"You just knew it?"

She nodded.

"Nations make no sense to me," he muttered, and served the blini.

* * *

"You're just insane," Ásdís decided.

"_She's_ a high-paid movie star diva and _I'm_ a low-budget Vegas stage magician!" Øystein exclaimed, ignoring the dirty look his cousin shot him. "How are _we_ supposed to help science!"

Cassiel smiled thinly and leaned back in his chair a little.

"_You're_ low-budget because half that _'stage magic'_ is the real thing," he said. "_She's_ high-paid because she has the _best _screen presence anyone can remember seeing in a long time."

Ásdís's eyes flickered to Øystein for a moment, who looked temporarily stunned.

"That still doesn't explain anything," she said quietly, on edge.

"He has to keep the stage crew and theater techies happy by disguising his real magic as clever props and specially-modified equipment," Cassiel replied. "You- you've got _it._ The screen presence. Charisma. People _want_ to listen to you, be around you, know what you're doing."

"Also untold wealth and fame," she muttered.

"_That_," Cassiel said triumphantly. "_Exactly_ that. _That's_ what I'm talking about,_ right_ there. The conversational attitude, the touch of temper, everything."

"Are you _trying_ to flatter me?"

"What exactly do you want, Cassiel?" Øystein asked, derailing the argument before it could start.

"Me?"

Cassiel leaned forward. The other two unconsciously copied him.

"I want to reconcile the differences between science and magic to create the sort of world people have been dreaming of since science fiction was invented. _'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic'_- I'm going to _prove_ that; only by meeting the two halfway."

"Insane," Ásdís restated.

"Now, how can you say that with the way we've grown up?" Cassiel asked. "Does science have any good reason for why our parents work the way they do? Travel distances like they do? Live as long as they do? Get injured? Heal? _Live?_"

Their little corner of the coffeehouse was silent.

"Magic doesn't either. I've _studied_ magic, the sorts that Arthur Kirkland has in his library and the sorts that haven't been in print for centuries and the ones that get passed down through word of mouth and the just plain made up ones in the fantasy section of any bookstore. They all work the same- you do something the right way, some sort of ritual, no matter how simple, and you get a result. Our parents don't do that. They just _do_ it. That's more like biology or physics, stuff that just _happens_ without anyone thinking about it- and _that's _science."

"You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?" Øystein asked suspiciously.

Cassiel shrugged.

"I'm smart. These are the sorts of things you come up with when you're smart. And bored. Or just curious. Usually all three at the same time, they tend to go together pretty well."

"So you're saying we could _really_ do this?" Ásdís asked. "Bring together magic and science and find that happy little middle ground our parents live in and make a sci-fi utopia?"

"Not a utopia," Cassiel replied, shaking his head. "_Never_ that. Just something better. Not _immediately,_ but we could make some good progress soon."

Ásdís looked like she was starting to understand.

"And you need me to sell it and finance it and Øystein to figure out how to hide the magic part in the science part, since we don't want people thinking we should be institutionalized instead of listened too."

Cassiel smiled happily.

"Exactly like that, but not quite! Close enough for now! So, are you two in?"

Ásdís just sipped the last of her coffee. Øystein drummed his fingers on the table and stared hard at the cloth pouch sitting in front of Cassiel.

Cassiel saw him looking.

"You know they work," he said slyly.

"Switch with me," Øystein demanded, standing up abruptly. "You've got the north-facing chair."

Cassiel obliged and they switched. Øystein opened the bag and fished around until he found a white cloth square at the bottom of the bag.

He laid it out on the table, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

_What will this venture mean for us?_

He picked a rune lot from the bag and placed in the center of the cloth.

_Raido. Journeys and decisions. I already knew that was my problem._

Another lot.

_Fehu. Material gain and success. That's how I got here, my Vegas job._

Next was the rune lot for the help to be received or sacrifices to be made.

_Laguz. Supernatural forces and personal gifts. _

He noticed Cassiel watching him with keen interest. The other man, he remembered, knew about how these runes worked.

The rune lot for obstacles to be overcome.

_Nauthiz. Limitations, need, trying times. __**Seriously?**_

The last rune was for the course of action to take. This was the important one.

_Mannaz. Interdependence- seek advice from, rely on, and work with others. _

Øystein glared at the five runes now laid out in a cross shape on the cloth in front of him.

"Øystein?" Ásdís asked, looking at the small stone tiles warily.

He swept the runes back into the pouch, cinched it shut, and shook it around before opening it again and thrusting it at her.

"Pick one."

"Øyst-"

_"Pick one."_

She stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out a lot.

"What's it look like?" he asked.

"Kind of like a pointy 'P'," she said, showing it to him.

_Wunjo. Bliss. Absence of suffering, good fortune on your side._

Øystein sighed tensely and snatched the rune from her, dropping it back in the pouch and stuffing the cloth in after it.

_I'm doing a Futhark layout and the First Ætt wheel after this, _he promised himself.

"So, what do you have so far?" he asked Cassiel, shoving the bag back at him.

Cassiel smiled, stood, stretched, and half-turned towards the door.

"Come and see."

* * *

**Author's Notes!**

_Skatά (Greek)_: Shit  
_Zatrzymanie (Polish)_: Halt  
_Isä (Finnish)_: Father  
_Far (Swedish)_: Father  
_La Liga de Antiespín (Spanish)_: The Anti-Espín League  
_El Jefazo (Spanish)_: The Big Boss  
_Hei (Noxc̈hiin Mott)_: Hey  
_Pozhalujsta (Russian)_: Please  
_Prosypatsja (Russian)_: Wake up  
_La'amee (Noxc̈hiin Mott)_: Independence  
_Maljutka (Russian)_: Little one  
_Noxc̈iyn Respublika (Noxc̈hiin Mott)_: Chechen Republic  
_Pan Polska (Polish)_: Mr. Poland  
_Pani (Polish)_: Ms. or Mrs.  
_Dziękuję (Polish)_: Thank you  
_Grecina (Italian)_: Little Grecian


	3. 2047: September

"No, look, you can't come," Pavel Laurinaitis told Noxc̈iyn_/_Chechnya.

"Yes I can!" the girl insisted.

"No, you _can't._ It's a UN Meeting and you haven't been recognized by the UN-"

"I'll go and make them!"

"Yakhiyta Ivanova Kazbek, you are not going to this meeting and that is _final!_" Pavel declared, fed up with arguing. It seemed like that was all his life was, lately. Arguing with incredibly stubborn Nation-children. "You are _still _a part of the Russian Federation and until such time that you successfully declare independence, you will _stay_ here unless ordered otherwise!"

He closed the briefcase he had been stuffing with important documents closed and dragged Yakhiyta out of Russia's study, locking the door firmly behind them. The little girl shook his hand off and dashed away, presumably to sulk and plot future havoc.

Pavel picked up the suitcase he'd left at the top of the landing and stomped down the stairs.

"Somebody sounds like they're ready for parenthood," a voice called.

Pavel stopped for a moment and leaned over the banister.

"We could hear you down here," Anatoli Braginski told him, looking at him from over the top of the couch. "You sounded like Sofya when she has to get Yasha to let me go to work."

"I don't want any children," Pavel muttered, finishing his descent and plopping the bags by the front door.

"Come sit," Anatoli called. "Fill me in. Who's my son playing with?"

Pavel collapsed on the couch next to his friend and glanced at the young girl playing with his employer's grandson.

"That's the Republic of Karelia. Oksana Ivanova-"

The girl stopped for a moment and looked up at him.

"_Karjalan Tazavalda_," she corrected him primly. "Senja Väinämöinen." (Karelian)

"Dear Lord," Anatoli said, as the children started playing with the blocks again. "Finnish?"

"Karelian. Finnish name. She's not the worst one."

Anatoli drummed his fingers on the couch armrest.

"Pasha?"

"Yeah, Ana?"

"How bad _is_ it? Really?"

Pavel glanced around.

"How do you mean?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"I asked _Papa_," Anatoli replied, lowering his voice as well. "But he just smiled and changed the subject. Ma wouldn't say anything when I asked her." (Dad)

"Ana-"

"Pasha, I just want to know if my father's in trouble. He's the Russian _Federation_. This-"

He gestured at Karelia.

"-they're new _Nations._ _Countries. _They die or split. I-"

Pavel covered his friend's mouth.

"The house isn't big enough for all of them," he whispered.

Anatoli's eyes widened in horror, and he pulled his friend's hand away.

His hand free now, Pavel took out a small pad of paper and started writing on it.

"No, Pasha, don't! Russia's _plenty-_"

"Pavel!" Russia called from somewhere in the house. "Everything is packed, _da_? Where is the budget? I need to look it over on the flight!"

"I'll get it for you, Mr. Braginski!" Pavel called back, standing.

"Pa-" Anatoli tried.

Pavel tore of the paper he'd been writing on and shoved it into Anatoli's hands.

Russia's son stared at it for a moment, then collected his son and walked out the door to his car. After he'd secured Yakov, he sat in the driver's seat and smoothed out the sheet.

_Kaliningrad_  
Karelia  
Chechnya  
Dagestan  
Ingushetia  
North Ossetia-Alaina  
Kabardino-Balkaria  
Karachay-Cherkessia

"Oh God," Anatoli whispered. "The North Caucus."

* * *

Yao stood in the hallway outside his grandson's room and massaged his aching shoulder.

_I can't leave him here, _he told himself. I don't trust these people. _Government minders, all of Them._

He'd managed to keep any potential problems to a minimum by having Tai with him as often as possible. But this cover that had been devised for his grandson- adopted as a child by foreigners, wants to come back and learn about his heritage- sounded good on paper only.

_I'm too nervous, _China thought, wincing as he a particularly sore spot. _It's showing, I know it is. They can't catch on-_

A sudden stab of pain lanced up from his side and shot into his head. He braced himself against the wall and hissed in pain, breathing through his clenched teeth.

_Dissidents. Troublemakers. Rioters,_ said the Nation part of his brain, the little bit that used to make him bend at the knees to his Emperors and made him applaud his Presidents' speeches now and still, _still,_ no matter how many centuries upon centuries went by, slipped up behind the pitiful excuse for a free will that his kind had and strangled it whenever he was given an order-

_Revolutionaries. Idealists. Demonstrators,_ said the free will that simply refused to acknowledge the inevitable and always got up, again and again, much like the Nation it served.

_Change,_ Yao's mind decided. _Violent change. There will be fires and explosions and looting. There always are. I can always shut Tai in the library and tell them that he's learning ancient history._

He shuffled off towards his room.

_And he would be. I have books that would take a professional their whole life to translate. It will keep him out of trouble._

Lovino finished securing his tie in an artful state of fashionable disarray and loomed over his couch, arms crossed.

"You coming?" he asked the still figure on his couch.

There was no reply, as usual.

"You're not doing anybody any fucking good just lying around like a freeloading piece of shit."

Greece's eyelids stayed resolutely shut.

"Did you lose your fucking mind or something? We've got a meeting."

No sound but the other Nation's too-shallow breathing.

"In _New York,_" Romano emphasized. "At the _UN._"

He glared, but it didn't alleviate the feeling of talking to a brick wall.

"Well, _fine. Be_ that way, damn lazy bastard. _Don't_ be any fucking help."

Romano turned on his heel.

"Your children are starving and burning in the streets and you won't do a thing in hell to help them. Fucking _brilliant_ time to be a slothful little shit-sucking freeloading jackass bastard eight-hundred-something fucking kilometers from home who's going to look Saint Michael in the face one day and realize that there's _no fucking way_ he can ever repent for _abandoning _his people-" (846.3 km, Mike)

_"Dying,"_ Greece rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Romano froze.

"The fuck?"

"_Feel _it."Heracles's voice was rough and thick from disuse and sickness. _"Fading. _No hope. No government. No _structure._"

The Nation twitched and shivered all over a moment.

_"Boήtheia. Auito. _Help me_."_

Lovino watched as his houseguest's eyelids cracked open. His head lolled to the side, and he shakily held a hand out.

"_Nάpolh_, help me."

* * *

"_Pan Polska_, are you going somewhere?"

Feliks looked at Teodozja over the slice of rye bread shoved in his mouth, one hand busy getting himself more kabanos.

"Since you're all dressed up," she clarified, a bit nervously. "You usually wear suits, but I haven't seen that briefcase before-"

Poland tore off the bread hanging out of his mouth and swallowed.

"Yeah. I've got like, a totally important meeting in New York," he told his technically-renter, waving the rest of the slice around vaguely. "UN opens today, and everybody gets together for a big meeting. We never really like, _accomplish _a lot, but we do it anyway. It's _totally_ just for socialization, unless there's something crazy-serious-important to talk about."

He poured himself more tea.

"Germany will like, try and _force_ us to do stuff, but he's a _total_ pain in the ass so we just ignore him."

"_P-_"

Teodozja fell silent and fidgeted, toying with her eggs.

"Dosia," Feliks said. "If you want to like, _say_ something, just say it. I _know_ we covered this."

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't be. And you can totally call me Feliks."

"But-"

"_Pan_ Łukasiewicz if you gotta be formal about it, okay?"

"Okay."

"So…"

"I- I'm really grateful for everything," she said carefully. "But I'm taking up space in your house and I'm not paying you or anything-"

"You totally don't have to. You're one of my people and you need help. Don't need money."

"It's been a month and I haven't worked anything out-"

"Dosia-"

"I've got to pay you back for giving us a place to live and buying things for Roksana but I don't have any money," she replied continued hurriedly. "So I can do chores or whatever you need me to, I know how dust and polish and wash floors and organize-"

"I don't-"

"_Please_, _Pan P_- _Pan_ Łukasiewicz, I can't just take all this for _nothing!_"

"It's like, Good Samaritanism-"

"I still have to repay your kindness somehow! God says that's what we should do!"

Feliks stared at her for a moment, then smiled a bit and made a small, amused noise.

"I'm inviting Liet and Erzsi and Krzyś - uh, Lithuania andHungary and the Vatican over after the meeting for dinner and stuff," he told her. "And _Czeska_ and Slovakia if they want to come. I'm gonna be gone for like, all today, but if you could get some rooms ready and get some food out and clean up a bit, that would be totally cool."

Teodozja sprang up.

"Yes! Yes, absolutely, of course! I'll have it all done before you get back!"

* * *

Alfred appraised the meeting room with pride. Everybody's places were set up- name card, thin portfolio with the 'agenda' and extra paper, a pen (because people _always_ forgot), and a glass of water.

Never mind that soon enough people were going to be re-arranging the name card placements to suit their plots and folding airplanes out of the paper and trying to put each other's eyes out with the pens and spiking their neighbor's glasses- it was all in order right _now._

The Hero had done his job!

"No touching!" America declared, spinning and pointing accusingly at a seat halfway down the table.

"But it's _my_ water," Canada protested weakly.

"You_ do_ realize that we're on international territory, right?" England asked, pulling his hand away from France's name card. "It's not your job to set up- though it _does_ prove you learned _something _about manners from me."

"This is still New York!" Alfred said. "And it was Ellie who taught me about this stuff!" (Eleanor Roosevelt)

"And who do you think taught _her _about it?"

"Not _you!_"

"Close enough," England replied, downed half his water glass, and dumped something clear into it.

"Aw, come _on!_"

Arthur ignored him and took his seat, opening his portfolio and pulling out the agenda.

"Who _typed_ this bloody thing?" he demanded, squinting at the print.

"I did!"

"America, this is a _disaster _of spelling! _'_Everz_'_? _'_Armz_'_? _'Zou'_? What are you trying to accomplish- gangster Chinese?"

"He was using a Qwertz keyboard," Matthew said, trying to be helpful.

"Woah!" the other man exclaimed, eyes wide. "There's such a thing?"

"_No,_ you git! There's just your- what the bloody hell is _this!_ Alfred, you _cannot _spell 'able' with a lowercase beta!"

"A what now?" America asked as England took a pen out of his suit pocket and started to edit furiously. He flipped open his neighbors' portfolios and pulled out their agendas, as well.

"A lowercase beta!" England repeated, glaring at him as he fixed spelling errors in triplicate. "I _know_ I taught you Greek and Latin! Were you even paying attention?"

"Dude, dead languages are _boring._"

"Latin is the foundation of_ five_ European languages-"

"That's _Europe._"

"And you should pay more attention to them," Canada told his brother.

"-and there's a_ damn_ good bit of it in English-"

"Still boring," Alfred replied, checking the time. "And I still dunno _what_ you're talking about. Zell's keyboard had two 'B's on it. And two 'A's and 'O's and 'U's! Germans are weird. Somebody's gotta tell Ludwig he only needs one of each."

"America, you twat, you've used eszett for every third 'B' on this whole bloody thing! You can't even _use_ it at the beginning of words! And why on _Earth_ were you using Gisela's computer?"

"What's this 'eszett' thing? You were just talking about Greek-"

"Same letter, different languages! Why Gisela's computer?"

"You European dudes are _weird._ And, uh, I took my computer with me to this campaign speech thing at Niagara Falls-"

"Oh, God, don't tell me."

"And there was this _falcon_-"

"I said _don't tell me!_" Arthur snapped. "I do _not_ want to listen to any more idiocy today!"

"Hold on a sec," Alfred told him. "I'm gonna leave Ludwig a note about his crazy alphabet and then we can talk about your stalker tendencies."

England gaped for a moment, and then snatched the paper America was writing on.

"I do _not_ have stalker tendencies!"

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Matthew told his former colonizer. "But sometimes it really seems like you do. Or else you just can't let people go."

"Dude, denial. Not just a ri-"

"Only in America could such_ butchering_ of such a beautiful and versatile language occur in the name of a saying!"

"_Hey! You're_ the one who talks funny!"

"I do _not!_ My English was first, so, _de facto_, _yours_ is the one deviating from the standard!"

"Pfah," a familiar voice scoffed. "_Une belle langue_? I think not, dear _Angleterre_. _Anglais _is like gravel rattling in my ears."

"Shut up, France!"

"Dude, stop insulting my language."

"Can't we just get along?" Matthew asked from his seat. "Can we _try,_ at least?"

"Now, what is this about stalking, _mon cher_?" Francis asked, sidling up to England. "Has someone fallen hopelessly _dans l'amour_?"

"He's been watching his granddaughter every day when she comes to school," Alfred supplied.

"Oh-_ho,_ _kinky._ I _knew_ you were repressed, _Angleterre_."

"How_ dare_ you imply such a thing about my character! Eglantine is my _granddaughter,_ you bloody pervert!"

"You know, he's only doing it to get a reaction," Canada said. "That's the only reason he _ever _does it."

"Dude, there's nobody here but us and we all know better," Alfred said, eyeing his carefully-arranged table.

"You take that back!" England demanded.

"_Non_."

"You both sound like children!" Canada declared. "I don't know how I ever lived with either of you!"

_"Now!"_

"Ah, how far they fall. Dear little _Angleterre _can no longer make people listen to hi-"

Arthur punched him in the face, Alfred decided not to get involved, and Matthew finished editing the rest of the agendas.

* * *

"Pasha! Pasha!"

Pavel glanced behind himself quickly and stopped, waiting for Zell Beilschmidt to catch up.

"I have _got_ to get _Babbo _to stop buying me heels," she muttered to herself, breathing heavily.

"Why not just buy your own shoes?" Pavel asked, eyeing the ever-further away Russian delegation.

"They're gifts, and it keeps me from _having_ to buy my own shoes," she told him, straightening up some. "Anyway, c'mon, I've got to introduce you to some people."

"But-"

"You can catch up with Russia later," Zell interrupted, grabbing his arm. "Come _on._"

She pulled him down a confusing network of hallways, heels clicking rapidly against the tile floor. Pavel quickly checked his bundle of documents to make sure he didn't have anything vital with him.

Zell slowed and pushed a door open. Pavel caught a glance of the plaque mounted on the wall.

"_'Office of Nations' Affairs?'_" he asked. "I've never-"

"It only took the General Assembly a _century _to figure out their Nations needed some sort of organization," Zell told him. "Preparing for diplomatic issues, organizing rooms, providing refreshments, fixing the things they break-"

"I thought that was _your _job," Pavel replied, pulling his arm out of her grasp.

"Yeah, well, they've given me a staff to do it now."

"Wo-Wait. You got promoted!"

Zell's smiled just a little.

"Yeah. Got a Directorship now. It's not as fancy as you think it is."

"Well, congratulations," Pavel told her, taking a look at the room he'd been dragged into. It was more like a wide, chopped off hallway- there were offices surrounding the whole area, mostly empty, which were blocked off slightly with a large desk and a sort of waiting area of chairs surrounding a small table. Two men were seated at it.

"You remember Meirvaldis," Zell said, gesturing to the elder man at the table as she got a seat for Pavel.

"Uh-"

The blond man, hair slightly wavy and just a bit too long, _did_ look familiar-

Pavel groped for his chair while he tried to place the other's face, failing at being unobtrusive about it.

Meirvaldis sighed.

"Galante," he supplied.

"Oh- _oh!_" Pavel said, feeling stupid. "Yeah. Hey."

"Hey."

Zell sat down and tapped her stack of papers on the table to straighten them.

"And that's David Mayfield; our intern."

The younger man held out his hand, and Pavel took it.

"Pavel Laurinaitis," he introduced himself. "Personal aide to the Russian Federation."

David shook it firmly.

"Hello, Mr. Laurinaitis. Do you have any ideas on how to handle your father; he's been very disruptive lately."

"Um-" Pavel said, taken aback.

"David is very enthusiastic," Zell said. "And very up-to-speed for being new. I just needed to bring you in here to tell you who to liaison with."

"So you have a staff of _three_ to deal with everyone?" he asked. "That's… really small."

"The UN is just as tight-fisted as any government," Meirvaldis told him. "We could have done worse. We're lucky we even _got_ an intern."

"I asked specifically once I heard about this department," David said with a touch of pride.

"Good for you," Pavel said uncertainly.

* * *

Germany took his seat and decided that he'd let everyone socialize, argue, fight, and wreak havoc -however unsettling that was- for about another five minutes. Just over a century of having to be the voice of reason and unofficial chair of the meetings meant he'd learned to schedule in extra time at the beginning of each gathering to let everyone blow off steam.

He didn't even bother to show up 'on time' anymore- not that anyone noticed. _They_ were the ones with the schedules that gave them a starting time some fifteen minutes earlier than it _really_ was.

Ludwig decided the schedule because no one else wanted to do it. He did a lot of things that no one else wanted to, and took good advantage of it.

He scooted his chair in a bit more and his knee bumped something. He felt under the table and pulled off a small box taped to its underside.

It looked like a ring box, and Ludwig fervently hoped that it wasn't one of Feliciano's romantic gestures.

Not that they were _unwanted,_ they were just- just- so incontinently _timed _and _placed _and overtly sweet and caring and those were _good_ things, they really _were,_ they just made his chest and stomach do uncomfortable things that he _really_ should have gotten used to by now and weren't really all _that_ unpleasant in the first place-

Germany strictly told himself to stop blushing so noticeably and opened the box.

There was a little card in the top that read:

_'For Vati- 9:45_

He flipped it over. It was a business card.

_UN Office of Nations' Affairs  
Maria Gisela Costa Beilschmidt, Director_

Ludwig smiled to himself._ Zell_ knew what he was doing.

He examined the lapel microphone still in the little box, figuring out how to adjust the volume and trying to see how it turned on.

Ghana leaned over discreetly from her seat next to him and made a little amused 'hmn' noise as she read the card.

"Taskmasters, both of you," she told him with a little smile. "Tell her congratulations from me, will you?"

Germany returned the gesture with one of his own.

"I will. Thank you."

He slipped the card into his pocket and realized that there was a minor incident occurring on his other side.

"There's something wrong across the border," Georgia hissed at Azerbaijan, who had taken Gambia's seat for the moment. Armenia was sitting between them on the table.

"Imeda-" Azerbaijan said warningly.

"I know how trouble looks, Gálay!" he shot back. "Don't you?"

She snorted at him.

"You've been saying something's wrong ever since the South Ossetia War, and nothing ever _has _been."

Armenia stuck her foot between the two of them.

"You never know what Russia's doing," she pointed out.

"You're just making it _worse,_ Ardzvi," Azerbaijan told her, and from there the conversation degenerated into angry Russian.

Ludwig checked the time -9:44- and clipped the microphone on. He surveyed the pre-meeting damage, which wasn't as bad as it could have been, and a little green light on the microphone's battery pack lit up.

Ah, so it was remote controlled.

Ghana noticed the look on his face and covered her ears. Canada saw her and followed suit, not that anyone paid any attention.

Germany slammed his fist down on the table and roared, in his best field command voice:

_"ORDER!"_

Someone shrieked –it might have been Nepal- and everyone jumped as his greatly-amplified voice drowned out everyone else.

"I want one," Canada said.

"Not fair!" Angola yelled.

"No more yelling," Bahrain pleaded with him.

"This meeting is now in session and it will _not _deviate from schedule!" Germany decreed, turning the volume down a bit. "Sit _down._"

There was a general shuffling as people found their seats, stole their chairs back, kicked other people out of their spots, and remembered that Canada's place was actually occupied and that no one was allowed to use it as a coat rack or bag holder.

Ludwig waited until everyone was mostly in order to begin.

"Ecuador, you're opening today," he said, and sat back down as the meeting sputtered to life.

* * *

Ásdís knocked tentatively on the door Wales's very nice refurbished Victorian house in Cardiff.

"It's open!" Cassiel called.

She entered the house and looked around. A door to her left was open, and she walked in.

Cassiel was standing meditatively in front of the fireplace, gazing at the two swords mounted above the mantel.

"These are probably something like fifteen hundred years old," he remarked. "It's amazing that they've survived this long."

Ásdís shrugged. A lot of the Nations had kept their old weapons. They made nice wall decorations- and it was always a good idea to have a good defense close at hand.

"Wales has been taking good care of them. It's not like they were left out in a bog or something to rust."

"I guess," he replied. "You know, King Arthur was originally a Welsh hero? He was supposed to have fought the Saxon invaders, who merged with the Angles to become the Anglo-Saxons-"

"Don't bring out the chart, don't bring out the chart," Øystein muttered, sitting unnoticed in a chair behind the other two.

"-and eventually the English, so Mr. Kirkland really has no business with that name, when you think about it. Though he should also be calling _Onkel_ Ludwig and France family- here, I'll show you-"

"He brought out the chart!" Øystein groaned, throwing his head back. "Cass, put that damn thing away!"

"But I put a lot of work into this!" Cassiel protested, looking hurt. He was halfway through unfolding a large, thin piece of paper that he'd somehow managed to fit into his pocket. "I talked to everybody and consulted history books and archaeological papers and linguistic treatises and figured out how we're really all cousins!"

"Every time you bring it out, there's an argument," Øystein said. "The world did _not_ need to know that Russia is really Sweden's grandson, or that the Venetians aren't natively Italian, and whatever else you figured out! The world dynamic is already messed up enough without you adding more trouble to it!"

"I'm not adding trouble. I'm providing knowledge!"

"They've been willfully ignoring it for a _reason!_ There's too much history in between all that now for it to matter! They've got other things to worry about and new families to deal with!"

"I was just trying to show that England is in no way related-"

"Where _is_ Mr. Cadogan, anyway?" Asdír interrupted.

"Oh, he's out with Scotland," Cassiel said. "England's at the meeting, so he's taking the opportunity to go bar-hopping in London. Wales is with him to make sure he doesn't trash Mr. Kirkland's house when he gets completely wasted. He should be gone all day."

He gestured to the table behind the couch that was strewn with bits of pieces of the projects he usually kept hidden in a shed on his landlord's grounds.

"So I figured we would take advantage of it."

* * *

England glanced over at America on his left and glared at the man's ear.

"Pay attention!" he hissed.

"Dude, it's just _Iraq. _I know what's he's talking about already. This is _way_ more important."

Arthur snatched the piece of paper America was so intent on and looked it over.

"These are just your bloody poll results!"

"You _bet_ they're bloody!"

Uruguay put in his defensive earbuds against Arthur's indignant response. He knew from bitter experience that his seatmates would only get louder and louder.

"Closest race in history!" America said proudly. "The polls are showing a near five-way split! Amazing, right!"

"It's bloody stupid, is what it is!"

"Aw, c'mon! It's _exciting! _Ever since the parties split up, people have actually paid _attention_ to the voting!"

"Only _you_ could be happy about political fragmentation!"

"Argument breeds democracy!"

The United Arab Emirates glared at both of them from England's other side.

"Well, _you_ two are just breeding trouble, and if you don't shut up I'm going to talk to OCOD about you," he told them sharply.

"Dude, seriously, threatening our oil imports was old even _before _the millennium."

"It's still effective. Where did all that talk of 'green energy resources' get you, huh?"

"Just shut up. He _tried,_ you git."

"Felicidad, back me up here!" the Emirates called, as America frowned at England and complained that he didn't need protecting.

Venezuela leaned back in her seat on the other side of Uruguay.

"You're on your own for now, Taheer," she replied. "Bring it up in committee if you'd like."

"Hah! There, see! Ukraine, you saw that, right!"

"D-don't drag me into this, please," she begged, scooting away from the Emirates and nearly giving Uganda a faceful of her chest. "It was bad enough last time!"

"America, do you have something to say?" Germany asked ominously from further into the room.

"America and England are blathering idiots who have spent much too long arguing with each other," the Emirates declared.

"My elections are freaking amazing this time around!"

"America is a bloody bastard who's late on his debt payment!"

Alfred scowled at him.

"I take that back- England is a creepy old man who stalks the family he didn't want to keep!"

Arthur stared at him in shock, ignoring France's snide comment about his sexual preferences and Gabon's heroic punch to his former colonizer's jaw that sent him sprawling unconscious on the floor. He and Finland made friends across France's chair as England gathered his wits about him again.

"H- How dare- It wasn't- I _did-_"

America smiled impudently at him.

"You can't have anything nice, can you?"

For a second, England's vision clouded over and all that was going through his head was _I am going to _strangle_ that sodding bastard, by God I will how DARE HE_

But then he thought of Eglantine and Irene and how he wouldn't ever have a real life with them, and how he'd had _something,_ at least, with America, and this was why he'd messed both up, so he stood and stormed out the room as quietly as he could.

The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut behind him was Germany asking:

"Will someone _please_ go get England?"

* * *

"Mum-"

Irene Walker sighed.

"Lana, love, I _told_ you. You can't talk about the fairies to anyone."

"But Mum-"

She got out of her seat and knelt next to her daughter.

"It's not normal, Lana. If you tell people-"

"Mum, Ai-"

"_Eglantine._ People don't like things that aren't normal, and if they don't think you're normal, they aren't going to want to be around you."

Lana looked up at her with sorrowful eyes.

"You won't let Ainsel in to play," she whispered. "Please- if I don't see her, she's going to think that I don't like her anymore!"

"Your father left because of the fairies, Lana," Irene said. "I don't want something like that to happen to you."

She glanced at the clock on the wall.

"You have your lunch? Your books?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Good. Mr. Chapman is taking you to school today and bringing you back, you remember?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Good girl. Now, I've got something for you before you go."

Lana's eyes lit up.

"A present?"

"Yes, a present."

Irene took her daughter's wrist gently and slipped a bracelet out of her pocket. She undid the complicated clasp and shut it again on her daughter's forearm.

Lana pulled her hand back and examined it- a four-leaf clover preserved in glass, mounted in stainless steel and connected to a braided red cord by some silver fastenings.

"Mum," she said accusingly. "This-"

"It's protection," Irene said firmly. "You need it."

"_Mum,_ the fairies aren't going to _hurt _me!"

Irene just sighed and escorted her to the door.

"Don't take that off, Lana," she ordered. "Have fun today, okay?"

"Yes, Mum."

Irene kissed her on the forehead and ushered her out the door and past the gate to the road, where Mr. Chapman was waiting with his car. She re-entered the house and locked the door.

Hands seized her forearms and breath ghosted across the back of her neck.

"Be bold, be bold," a voice whispered in her ear.

* * *

Teodozja watched Roksana, asleep in the ancient cradle Poland had dragged out of the attic, for any signs of waking.

Finally, she stood and clipped a baby monitor onto the side of the cradle and brushed her fingertips over her infant daughter's cheek.

Roksana never stirred, and Dosia crept down the stairs and hesitantly took the other set of keys hanging on the rack just inside the door.

_Mr. P- Mr. Łukasiewicz said to get the house ready,_ she told herself. _But there's not enough food for guests and I'm going to cook for them all, so-_

She just hated to leave Roksana alone like this, and wasn't sure if she was allowed to leave the house unattended-

She fumbled with the keys and they fell to the floor. Dosia knelt down and picked them up by the keychain, which was one of the rectangular plastic sorts with the name and address card that slid in.

This set read _'Teodozja Pakulski, 1569 Mickiewicz ul. Zatelefonować 22-992-11-13 jeśli nie'_

Dosia smiled falteringly, not sure how to feel.

_My own keys._

She grabbed her purse and stuffed the other end of the baby monitor in it before she could change her mind. Her hand hit something stiff and crinkly that she didn't remember being there before.

She pulled out an envelope with _' Emergency Shopping Fund! '_written on it in happy pink letters.

Teodozja blinked rapidly to fight back the tears she could feel forming, stuck the envelope back into her purse, and went to find food.

* * *

Russia jerked his foot under his chair and tried to concentrate on what Iceland was saying about overfishing and environmental impact.

Something hit his leg again.

"Stop kicking me," he muttered to Rwanda.

"I swear I'm not doing anything!" she answered quickly.

He was inclined to believe her, but there was still some insistent prodding around his ankle.

"Is there something you want to say to me, Cezar?" he asked Romania in his 'I am not actually considering bashing your head in, I promise' voice.

It never seemed to work, for some reason, but maybe_ this_ time-

Romania gave him a look like he thought he was crazy.

"Why would I be trying to talk to _you?_"

Rwanda edged discreetly further away from Russia, causing San Marino, sitting on her other side, to consider the merits of imposing on Saudi Arabia's personal space, and how badly pissed off Iraq was likely to get about that.

"Well, you keep kicking me under the table. You wanted my attention, now you have it, _da?_"

"I don't _want_ your attention!" Romania protested.

Ivan turned his head to look curiously at Rwanda.

"But I do not think it is our friend Rwanda, since she has drifted all the way over there to see San Mari-"

A decent portion of the room dove for cover at Russia's enraged roar.

"Dude, what the _hell!_" America exclaimed.

"That was very uncharacteristic," China agreed, a little shaken.

"Vanya, are you all right!" Ukraine cried, jumping up.

"Something has smashed my foot!" he said angrily. "Comrade _Rumynija, _I did not know that we had such a serious issue-"

"I didn't do a damn _thing!_" Cezar shot back. "I'm minding my _own_ business-"

A dark streak bolted from underneath the tablecloth and dashed across the open space in the horseshoe table.

"Don't you run to _me,_ Sealand!" Ireland yelled with a scowl. "I ain't protecting you-"

The streak dived into the chair next to him.

"_Ikh nite darfn dayn helfn_," the strange boy retorted.

Israel looked in shock at the boy in her lap. Veneziano smiled distractedly at him and then waved at Germany to see if he'd stop _staring_ like that.

It was scaring him a little bit.

"The hell was _that,_" Ireland said. "German?"

"_Jiddisch?_" Prussia said from his seat in the corner by the Vatican. Everyone turned to look at him.

He whistled, long and low.

"_Damn._ I am fuckin' im_pressed. _Your kids don't _do_ assimilation, Rahel."

She shot him a nasty look, but the boy ignored them and looked up at Israel with the world in his eyes.

"_Groys Shvester vel helfn mir_," he announced confidently, and hugged her, snuggling close.

Rahel hesitantly returned the gestured, looking like she didn't really believe she was awake.

"Wha- who-?"

"Yevgeniy. New Zion."

There was a general sharp intake of breath from around the room. Rahel closed her eyes slowly, and lowered her face against Yevgeniy's hair.

"Hello, Zhenya. _Mine bisl bruder_."

_"Oblast,_ come back here," Russia said coldly. "Now."

Israel stiffened and tightened her hold on the 'Jewish Autonomous Oblast'.

"I don't trust you with him!" she spat.

"He is part of the Russian Federation-"

"He's the only other Jewish state in the world and that makes him mine!" Israel screamed.

Ivan twitched.

And got smacked by his own portfolio.

Zacarías wondered how best to approach Adán Salcedo Esparza, and finally stopped lingering around in front of Espín's former office and just walked in.

Adán looked up.

"Oh, Zacarías," he said.

He wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to take that.

"Did your- _father_ send you?" _El Jefazo_ asked.

"No. I just wanted to ask you something."

The leader of the LAE leaned back carefully in his chair and rested his hands in his lap.

"Ah. Well, go ahead."

"Are you actually going to hold properly democratic elections?"

Adán frowned.

"Your father _did_ send you," he accused.

"No, sir, I just wanted to know."

_El Jefazo_ drummed his fingers on the armrest before replying.

"It doesn't appeal to me," he said.

Zacarías shifted on his feet.

"Why?"

"I don't trust them."

Zacarías was confused.

"Who?"

"Them. The people."

"But we fought f-"

"Yes, we fought for the people. But I don't think that they're very good at deciding things for themselves."

Adán stood.

"You see, they thought the government they had before Castro and Espín was bad, so they supported Fidel when he had his revolution. Look how that turned out."

He turned his attention out the window.

"That sort of thing happened all over South America, and I don't want it happening here. If I let the people choose, they might decide wrongly. I can see quite a bit of Havana from here, and I don't want it falling into the wrong hands."

Zacarías moved tentatively to his side.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I think part of democracy is that you have to have some faith in the people who are going to have it. I mean, yeah, people make stupid mistakes, but they really want a democracy, right? And if they want it bad enough to overthrow a government, shouldn't they get it and try it out? They'll… work to make it work. Because they don't want anything else."

"They can work at it and they could still make terrible mistakes," Adán replied. "And _then_ where would they all be? Back to Castro?"

"Maybe. But they'll have tried, right?"

Adán sighed and turned to him.

"I don't think you understand, Zacarías. I care about these people. I don't want to free them only to see them fall again under another tyrant. If I don't ever let a tyrant get a chance, then they'll be safe."

Zacarías gazed blankly at him while he did some thinking.

"But you had to have faith in them already, right? To fight for them like you did? And they… they chose you to fight for them, and you accepted. So- they proved they could make a good choice, right?"

"They made a good choice this time," Adán said. "It's not that the people can't make a good choice, but there's so much potential for them to make a bad one-"

"Look, sir, I don't really want to argue with you or really understand what you're trying to tell me," Zacarías said. "All I really wanted to say was: do you want to be remembered as one of the people who fought for freedom only to lock everyone away again or one of ones who truly let the people do the speaking for the people?"

He spent a second studying Adán's face and walked out.

* * *

Øystein sighed and let Cassiel's blueprints drop down on the table.

"So…?" the man prompted.

"Cass, it looks great," he said. "Amazing. Brilliant. But you could never build it."

"Oh, really?"

Ásdís flipped through the blueprints again.

"Too expensive?" she asked.

Øystein pulled out a sheet and arranged the parts on the table so that they formed a rough approximation of how the blueprint said they would fit together.

"This looks like it should work," he said. "Everything's lined up perfectly, the craftsmanship is great, the idea is- well, outstanding, but we knew that already. But you can't make it out of steel!"

Ásdís opened her mouth for a second, looking confused, and then comprehension dawned.

"Iron. You make steel from iron."

"And you can't enchant iron!" Øystein exclaimed.

"Earth has a long history of magic weapons," Cassiel pointed out. "Shields and spearheads and swords-"

"Steel!" Øystein continued. "Steel! Those were all_ steel_ weapons, or bronze if they were really old. Even stone, flint or obsidian! But there is no power, human or not, that can enchant iron."

Now Ásdís was confused again.

"But you just said you couldn't make it out of steel."

"Oh, a magic sword, _that's_ fine. Simple spells- burst into flame, sing when drawn, make blinding light, never break, cut through anything. One spell, one sword. It takes a _ridiculous _amount of power to fix the spell into the carbon in the steel and keep the iron from repelling it, but once you've got it, it _never_ comes out and _never _wears off. The iron keeps it there."

He gestured at the machine parts.

"But this- there'd be too much iron and not enough carbon for the sort of thing you want to do! You want to run magic through it continuously _–somehow- _and there'll be too much resistance for it to work!"

Cassiel shook his head sadly.

"You've got to stop thinking like this is the twenty-first century," he said.

"But it _is_ the twenty-first century!" Ásdís reminded him.

"Okay, well, the first half of it, then," Cassiel amended.

"It _is-"_

"Whatever. You get what I mean."

_"No."_

"We're almost to two-thousand fifty!" Cassiel exclaimed. "It's time to leave the sputtering, coughing remnants of the Industrial Revolution behind and expand our technological horizons!"

Ásdís and Øystein looked at him impassively.

"What? That's kind of the whole point here."

"Cass, what are you going to make these out of?" Øystein asked.

"How did you manage to make your equipment work if you couldn't use steel?"

"Brass, it's all brass. But youcan't _use _brass for this Cass, it's not strong enough-"

"Titanium," Cassiel said abruptly. "We can use brass for the small models and low-performance versions, but mostly we'd have to use titanium. I'd _really_ like to work with titanium-carbon alloy when we have more money because carbon is the foundation of life and life makes magic, it practically_ is_ magic and some of my tests have shown the carbon-magic combination to be incredibly effective and I'd _love _to see how carbon nanotubes work with that-"

"Cassiel, do you have any _idea_ how _expensive _titanium is?" Ásdís groaned. "One pound of pure titanium- I don't want to even _think_ about it! And titanium _alloy?_ That's for- for luxury sports car engines! Planes! _Space ships!_"

Cassiel smiled widely.

"Good thing I want to make those then, huh?"

* * *

Zell's cell phone rang midway through the conversation around the table. She answered it immediately.

"Mr. Williams-"

There wasn't any response- just shouting, in Russian, and English, and some other languages she didn't know.

"Mr. Williams?" she tried again, uneasy.

Still no response.

"Zell?" Pavel asked, not liking the look on her face.

She hung up the phone.

"Pavel- has something been going on with your uncle? There's... quite a bit of commotion happening in the meeting right now."

Pavel didn't bother responding and stood to leave, Zell on his heels.

* * *

Teodozja walked out of the grocery store with a bag in each hand and trotted towards the bus stop.

She'd been terrified that she'd be in the middle of shopping and the baby monitor would go off, letting her hear Roksana's cries for love and care when there was no one there to help her.

But it had all gone well, and now all that was left to do was get back to the house and start cooking-

"Dosia! Hey, _Teodozja!_"

She flinched.

"Dosia, hey," Mieczysław said breathlessly as he slowed from the sudden run he'd burst into to reach her. "Haven't seen you around lately."

"I know," she replied quietly.

The bus couldn't come fast enough.

"We all missed you in school," he continued. "And nobody saw you over the summer and now school's started up again without you. Where'd you move to? Your parents didn't say anything to anyone before they sold the house."

_They _left?_ Th-They left without even _looking _for me? Without even telling someone where they were going so I could _find _them again?_

Dosia fought the tears and tried to look okay.

"Did they really?"

"Yeah," Mieczysław said, rubbing the back of his head absentmindedly.

She'd almost forgotten that he did that.

"I mean, it makes sense for them, I guess. They're Catholic enough that they wouldn't want to stick around with people they knew after you got your abortion. It kinda made explaining to _Mamusia _why we weren't together any more a lot easier. Hard to date someone when you don't know where they went."

And that- _that-_

Teodozja didn't think she'd ever find words to describe exactly how she felt at that moment.

Or how relieved she was when the bus turned the corner and slowed to a noisy stop in front of her.

Dosia fumbled quickly with her bags, trying to maneuver the groceries so she could pull her bus card out of her purse. She grabbed the card but dislodged her keys in the process.

Mieczysław bent over and picked them up, sticking them back in her purse as she tried to get into the bus without dropping anything else.

"See you around," he called as she swiped her card and the bus driver closed to doors.

As Teodozja found a secluded seat on the bus to sit and cry as quietly as she could, Mieczysław quickly wrote down the address and phone number from the keychain before he forgot it.

* * *

Russia whirled around.

A girl with long, thick wavy blonde hair was standing on his chair, blue eyes cold and angry, clutching the portfolio tightly. She was tall for a new Nation- on the chair, she could almost look Russia in the eye.

"Aleksandra Ivanova Medvedeva," she said. "_Sakha Öröspübülükete."_

Russia narrowed his eyes.

"_Respublika Sakha_."

"Yakutistan!" Turkey called. He waved.

Ivan spared a glare for him before turning back to Sakha.

"You will get off of my chair now, _da_?"

"_Suoh_. _Nyet_; you do not own me."

"Ah, you are mistaken, little Sasha," Russia said, trying hard to keep his temper. "_You_ are a part of _my_ Federation."

"_Urut_. No longer."

"I have not let you leave, _Respublika Sakha_."

"I don't _need_ your permission, Russia. We've stopped listening to you and your government and your politicians. To _Moskva_. To your _lies_."

_"They do not lie!"_

The silence in the room was condemning.

The Republic of Sakha drew herself up.

"You _lie._ You _always_ lie, and we won't take it anymore. _We don't want you._"

"Oh," Russia said, his voice cold and too even. "What_ is _it that you want, then?"

"Freedom," she said, eyes going hard. "From _you."_

"You _cannot-_"

"_Jeje_, I _can._ _I_ _will._ You can't stop me."

"And how will _you _stop _me?_" Russia challenged, voice rising. "You have barely a million people! You are surrounded by the Federation; and we are many, _da_?"

"Khakassia will stand with me!" Sakha exclaimed. "And Tuva! We will cut you off from the Far East, and _then_ what?"

"And then I send my army-"

"What army? _What army,_ _Russia_? The one fighting in the Caucus? The one recapturing Karjala? Kyonig? Komi, Nenents, Murmansk?"

"I have many people to serve the army, many children who will fight-"

"Each other? You will have them fight each other?"

"It will not be anything new," Ivan said bitterly.

"And what will you pay them with?" Sakha demanded. "Where will you get the money?"

She brandished the portfolio again.

"Where will the Russian Federation get the money- _Ivan?_"

"You do_ not_ call m-"

"Where will you get the money? What will you cut? You _barely_ have an army as it is! It's _old _and falling apart and _broken-_"

"They will be fighting for their Motherland!"

_"What will you pay them with!"_ Aleksandra screamed. "You _have no money!_ You _haven't_ had any money for _years; _you have been surviving on_ credit _and _loans _and the_ idea _of money_ and it shows!_"

"We will _find_ the money!" Ivan snarled. "We have _debt_ we can call-"

"_Woah,_ dude, hold _up-_" America began.

"We can _tax!_ We can defer payment! But you _will _stay- you and all the rest! I will _fight_ to keep you, and_ keep_ fighting until there is nothing left!"

"_They won't fight!_ They won't _want_ to die for you!"

"They _will!"_ Russia roared. _"We can make them!"_

The room was silent for less than a second before the world erupted into protest. No one heard the door open.

"You do not have to leave, Sakha. Stay, you and the others can stay and then no one will have to die-"

Chechnya grabbed Ivan's hand and bit down hard.

His wordless scream of rage stopped most of the rest of the noise in the room as he turned on the young Nation in blind fury, ready to _make her stop_-

Something very cold hit his face.

He froze and squeezed his eyes shut automatically to keep the liquid out. Ivan used the end of his scarf to wipe the water away from his face and opened his eyes again.

Zell was standing there, holding one of the now-mostly-empty pitchers of ice water that were left around the table for anyone who wanted some.

The room was quiet, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Are you going to hit someone, _gospodín_?" she asked quietly.

Ivan blinked and looked down at the hand Chechnya wasn't attached to at the moment (funny, he couldn't even feel it anymore) and then blinked again, in surprise.

_When did I make a fist?_

"Ah- _nyet_. I am planning on hurting no one today, _da_?"

"Good," Zell replied, and put the pitcher back on the table. He let his hand relax and looked quizzically at the girl still attached to his other appendage.

"I'm sorry, sir," Pavel muttered, trying to be inconspicuous. Everyone was staring. "_Extremely _sorry- I have no idea how they got here, I _swear._ I _know_ we left Noxc̈iyn at home and I've never seen the other one before-"

"Chechnya," Russia corrected him absently. "That is okay, Pasha. They are troublesome little Nations, _da_?"

Pavel didn't reply to that, and simply pinched Chechnya's nose shut until she let go of Ivan's hand, gasping for air.

Zell tapped him on the shoulder and handed him his portfolio back. Sakha had gotten off the chair, but was still lurking near it, glowering.

Ivan took his seat again and ignored her.

"Now," Zell said. "We're going to take the kids back to my office and keep them there until the meeting is over-"

"Is that part of your job?" Miervaldis asked.

"I'm_ making_ it part of my job," she replied curtly. "-so something can actually get done in here. Without violence would be nice. You can come pick them up afterwards. Miervaldis, you take…"

She looked at the Sakha Republic, trying to divine who she was.

"Aleksandra," Sakha replied. "_Sakha Öröspüb-_"

"You take Sakha back. Pavel, you've got Chechnya. Ms. Navin, could I have, ah- New Zion, please?"

Israel held him tighter.

"I'm going to give him back," Zell said, smiling a little. "I promise."

Rahel sighed.

"Go on, _bisl bruder_," she said quietly, and put him down, giving him a little push towards Zell. Yevgeniy dashed over to her and then hesitated, uncertain. The woman took his hand and led him out, following Pavel and Miervaldis back to her office.

"Well, that was interesting," Zambia said after the door had closed, trying to defuse the tension.

"I _knew_ there was something wrong!" Georgia exclaimed, standing and pointing accusingly at Armenia and Azerbaijan. "I _told_ you! And _you _said I was never right!"

"Köningsburg!" Prussia exclaimed, to no one in particular.

"Vanya, what was all that about?" Ukraine asked. "Are you okay?"

"Dude, I don't want _my_ debt payments going to_ your_ army!"

"What's this about Karelia?" Finland wanted to know.

_"Köningsburg!"_

"We are returning to the meeting," Germany said firmly. "We can discuss Russia's issues _at a_ _later time._ Does anyone have something to add?"

Romano looked around, but no one seemed to have anything.

Mentally, he shrugged.

"Greece is dying," he announced.

* * *

Irene thrust her elbow back, knowing that she was at the right level to connect with her assailant's gut, but ended up hitting the wall painfully.

"Really, now," the man who had been holding her said from his new position- leaning easily against the doorframe of the kitchen entrance. "That was just unnecessary."

"Get out of my house!" she snapped.

The man toyed with a bit of thread.

"No. It _hurts_ me Irene, it_ really_ does. Witch balls on the porch? Horseshoe over the door? A _wrought iron fence?_ Hazel in the garden and garlic in the window planters? A decorative _fountain,_ for goodness' sake! And don't think I missed that little bowl of holy water right outside the door. Do your guests think you just bought those little glass gems in it for decoration or are they smart enough to spot that you've used _real _amber and ruby?"

Irene didn't reply and the man just smiled.

"Or maybe you don't have any guests. It wouldn't surprise me. If I didn't like you so much I would be _deeply _offended and leave."

"Oh, _please,_ do."

The man ignored her and ambled into the kitchen.

"Oh my oh my oh my- Irene, you _have_ been busy. Is this real brass?"

She entered the kitchen just in time to see him flick the faucet and listen to the metallic _ting_.

"I do believe it _is!_" the man exclaimed in evident delight. "And unless my eyes deceive me I do believe that I see a rowan tree in the back yard. How… _thorough _of you, Irene. Even brought in some twigs for 'wall decoration'. Added in some holly, I see."

"How can you even stand to _be_ in here?" Irene demanded angrily. "How did you even get in the _gate?_"

"My dear, dear Irene," the man said sadly, shaking his head. "You seem to be laboring under a _terrible _misconception. Come, sit with me."

He lounged in one of the kitchen table chairs.

Irene sat down stiffly across from him.

"I never invited you in," she hissed.

"I'm not some fairy or vampire who needs permission, Irene," the man replied, waving a hand languidly at her. "Come now."

"I won't be offering you any food," Irene said abruptly. "I refuse hospitality to you."

The man pouted.

"Oh, should I be looking out for a knife in the back, then?"

_"Like it would do anything to you!"_

He chuckled.

"Ah, that's true. I must say Irene, this is the best-protected house I've seen in, oh, about a week. Since London. You _did_ do your research, didn't you?"

"It wasn't that hard."

"It's a shame, you know. All this cold iron and such everywhere. You've got a whole _troop _of pixies flitting about in the road, and there's a _very_ pathetic-looking unicorn watching you woefully from across the street."

"Good."

"Most people are content with synthetics and decorative flowers nowadays."

"I'm different," Irene snapped at him.

Now the man laughed.

"Why yes, yes you are, Irene Walker. Just floating along in your little protective charms and such. Not _quite _so little though- it was _fiendishly_ difficult to get past them. Your craftsmanship is _exquisite._"

"I told you, they weren't mine!"

"Oh, _come _now. I know they weren't dear Joseph's-"

"Don't you _dare_ speak of him, you lying conniving Incubus!" Irene yelled, half-standing.

"Ahhh… too bad Irene, wrong again. I'm no demon."

"Oh_ really?_"

The man sighed.

"So little trust. Tell me- how is my dear little girl doing?"

Now Irene really did get out of her chair.

"Eglantine is _not_ your 'dear little girl'!"

The man's smile got wider.

"Of course she is."

Irene stormed over to the counter and yanked a drawer open. She spun back around and brandished a crucifix at the man.

"Out! Get out of my house!" she demanded.

The man just sighed.

"Oh, Irene. Poor, poor little Irene. So young. So misguided."

"Go burn in hell!"

"Now, now-" the man said, holding his hands up conciliatorily. "I've never really understood you, Irene- walking around without a care behind protective spells not your own, your adoptive parents not magical in the least, nor your dear departed husband-"

"Eglantine was _never_ yours,_ is_ not yours, and never _will _be yours!"

The man stilled.

"Is that so?"

_"Yes!"_

He stood.

"I can see I'm not welcome here, then," he said, producing a hat from somewhere and donning it. "Though _what_ I would give to find your true parentage. I haven't had this much trouble since dear Lady Mary's menfolk hacked me to pieces."

"You were going to hack _her_ to bits," Irene retorted, voice a bit shaky. "But you will never, _ever _have Eglantine or I!"

"Oh, I can't do a thing to _you,_ my dear sweet Irene," the man purred, placing one fingertip under her chin. "There_ is_ a limit to how much I can do with those protections of yours. They can be tricked but not trapped."

Irene jerked her face away from his hand.

"And keep your witchcraft _out of my house,_ Mr. Fox," she snarled.

"Oh, dear naïve Irene," Mr. Fox said, sauntering out of the room. "It's no _witchcraft,_ what I do. _'A witch is a witch for all their days, but a sorcerer's a sorcerer only when it pays'_."

He turned the corner into the hall.

"And there is a very _significant_ difference there, Irene Walker. Good day to you."

Irene dashed out of the room quickly, but Mr. Fox had already disappeared.

She spent the rest of the day painting over the words burned into the inside of her front door:

_'Be bold, be bold, but not too bold'_

* * *

_"A space ship,"_ Ásdís said, clearly trying to control her voice. "You want to build a _space ship._"

"Eventually," Cassiel replied with a shrug. "I think if it's planned right we could get it up to a third of the speed of light eventually. Ninety-nine million, nine-hundred and thirty-thousand, eight hundred and nineteen point three meters per second."

"And _now_ you're talking about the _speed of light._"

"Have you heard of ley lines? There are major ones that get put on those maps and things even though they never seem to line up properly between the maps and I don't really think any of those people know what they're doing. But they _do _exist and there are a lot of smaller ones and just a general magical field and you get repulsion off that with properly-affected iron. I don't know if they go into space but there's got to be _something _there keeping the universe together, so I bet there's magic up there so the same idea-"

"Cassiel, are you talking about _hovercars _here?"

"Kind of? I mean, mostly I was thinking about propulsion for planes and space ships without having to use a whole lot of jet fuel, sort of like mag-lev trains, but I guess it _could_ work for cars if we figured out how to miniaturize it-"

"Can we- let's just focus on this machine, first," Øystein interrupted. "How are you going to power this, Cass? Electricity isn't going to cut it."

"Oh!" Cassiel exclaimed. "Wait a second!"

He dug around in one of his pockets, came up empty, and tried the other, then looked at the table, lost.

"You've got a breast pocket in your shirt," Ásdís told him dryly.

"Right."

He reached in and fished out what Øystein thought was a silver-colored ring until Cassiel turned it slightly, catching light on the clear crystal within it.

"_That's_ going to power this machine?"

"_Every _machine," Cassiel told them. He flicked the crystal inside the ring and it rang with a nice, clear note. "Rock crystal quartz surrounded with carbon and bonded with silver. Quartz amplifies magical energy, silver strengthens the connection between the physical and the magical, and the carbon is an _amazing _magical conductor, like I said before."

He pointed to the blueprints.

"It hooks up here and here and moves the magic along through this conduit…"

* * *

Feliks pushed the door to his house open, ushered his guests into the living room, and then popped into the kitchen to check on Teodozja.

She wasn't there, but he could smell how the dinner he hadn't been expecting to be made already was turning out. It promised great things in his immediate future.

He went upstairs and found his permanent houseguest feeding Roksana.

"Y'know, you totally didn't have to cook dinner," Poland told her, leaning on the doorframe.

Dosia smiled at him- but something was a little off.

"I know, _Pan_ Łukasiewicz."

He watched as Roksana decided she'd had enough and fidgeted. Dosia put her baby back in the cradle and pushed it slightly so it rocked a little.

"Dosia?" he asked softly. "What's wrong?"

She blinked at him- too fast.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Dosia, you're one of my people," Poland told her with a slight smile. "I _know_ when something's wrong."

He sat down next to her on the bed.

"What happened?"

She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, before speaking.

"I- I- When I went to get groceries- Uhm, thank you for leaving the keys and the money- I was at the bus stop and- and _Mieczysław_ showed up."

Feliks perked up.

"Really?"

"H-he said my parents _moved_ and nobody knows where they _went!_" she half-wailed, tears finally starting to come. "A-and he said that made it _easier_ _to explain_ why he broke up with me a-a-and _he thinks I got an abortion!_"

Dosia broke down completely.

"H-h-he th-thinks I killed my _baby!_" she sobbed. "H-he thinks I killed _Roksana!_ A-and he doesn't _care!_"

Feliks leaned over and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, rocking her slightly.

After a few minutes, Dosia managed to fight her tears down. She sniffed, and Poland tried to remember where the nearest tissue box was.

"I-I should go take the dinner before it burns," she said quietly, and tried to stand up.

Feliks didn't let go, and handed her a pocket handkerchief that he'd remembered he was still carrying around. She blew her nose and he took the cloth square back, leaving it carefully on the nightstand. He kissed Teodozja's forehead.

"Leave dinner," he told her. "I can totally manage it. You go downstairs with Roksana and, like, mingle. I'll introduce you."

She nodded and picked Roksana up again, cradling her against her chest, Feliks never moving far from her side. He escorted her down the stairs and into the living room, where she'd sat, wet and distraught, last month.

"Not everybody could like, make it," Poland told her. "And some other people showed up, but that's totally okay 'cause there's enough food for everybody-"

"Feliks," a woman with long brown hair said, dropping her head over the back of the couch to look at them. "Who's your friend there?"

"This is Teodozja. She's staying with me 'cause her parents were like, _totally _uncool and kicked her out of the house and then moved without saying anything to like, _anyone._"

"Is that a baby?" a young-looking man asked.

"Totally. She's Roksana."

"Lay off, Kristóf," the woman muttered.

The man shot her a glare.

"They're just _children,_ Elisabel," he said reprovingly, and stood from his seat on the couch, coming over.

"May I see?" he asked Dosia, holding his arms out.

She reminded herself that Poland would not leave her with anyone dangerous –he'd disappeared into the kitchen- even if they were strangers. She handed Roksana to him carefully, and he took her, cradling her gently.

Roksana squirmed and whimpered, unhappy about being in the arms of stranger. The man cooed to her quietly, and stroked her wispy hair lightly.

"Has she been baptized yet?" he asked.

Dosia felt a pang of guilt. She hadn't been to church in _months-_ she'd been _in _them, trying to find someplace warm to spend the night and maybe some food, but never for Mass-

"No, sir," she said.

He looked at her briefly and she couldn't fathom his expression. Sad? Disappointed?

The man turned his attention back to Roksana and raised his right hand, index and middle fingers together.

"A blessing for your child," he said, and crossed her, murmuring something in a language she didn't understand, but thought was probably Latin.

"Amen," he finished, and fixed her with a stern look as he handed Roksana back to her. "Arrange her baptism as soon as possible._ No_ child should be without the grace of God."

"Yes, Father," she said dutifully.

The man smiled thinly.

"Not 'Father', Teodozja."

Someone snorted, and said something sarcastic-sounding in a foreign language Dosia couldn't put a name to. The man (the preist?) looked over at the brown-haired man collapsed on the third couch in the room, head half-off a blonde man's lap.

He looked drunk.

The man who had blessed Roksana scowled and stalked over.

"Don't mind them," the woman said, making Dosia jump slightly. She hadn't seen her get up. "Kristóf is just going to give him some ranting lecture about 'the sins of inebriation' and Toris will try to argue with him. Eduard will probably just zone out- he's only here to keep Toris in check. He's been having a bit of a _drinking_ problem lately."

Roksana gurgled at the new arrival, and the woman smiled at her, tickling her palm with one fingertip.

"I remember when _my_ son was this small," she said wistfully.

"Where does he preach?" Dosia asked, dipping her head towards the man. "Česko? Slovakia? Germany?" (NOT Czechia- it was never officially adopted and is extremely rare)

The woman smiled crookedly.

"He's no priest. Not officially."

"But he just-"

"He's the Holy See. He's _special._"

Dosia's mind shut off for a moment.

"Teodozja?" the woman asked.

"The Holy See," she replied after a moment.

"Yep."

"The Holy See. The _Vatican._"

"Uh-huh," Hungary told her, trying not to smile quite so wide. She never got tired of people's reactions to meeting what was, essentially, the Roman Catholic Church personified.

_"He just blessed my baby."_

"He likes children. We all do. It's nice to see the future of the world- and they're just so _cute,_ aren't they?"


End file.
